Yes, (Prime) Minister
by y11971alex
Summary: Cato has won his games and became victor; his neighbour has won his own game and became Prime Minister. A tale of how a young boy got his way to the top, befriending Cato, and so many others on his way. You thought the games were horrible? Politics is even worse! Cato can't get off his killing mindset and the Prime Minister can't get into it though he needs to. T for blood/humour.
1. Prologue and Retraction

Hi:

I am a student in Vancouver, BC, Canada, and I am in my last year in high school. While I had never quite learnt writing formally, I do have a series of primitive works that I would like the greater Internet community to critique, and preferably enjoy.

In this particular series, I chose a rather unknown perspective with a character drawn from the Hunger Games, Cato. We know about Snow's tyranny, but what about his minister? Did he have unanimous support in government? Was he really as powerful as he appeared? These questions, pricking my skin as I read the novel, I strive to answer in this series to the readers' satisfaction.

Throughout this extended series, I use the "third person objective" perspective. That is to say, I won't tell you anything besides actions, scenes, and speech. You will be the observer and tell what's behind each character as they present themselves to you. I can't reveal anything to you except for objectively observable facts.

The principal focus in these stories is on a character called _Alex Caelum_, first a knight, then a minister, then prime minister as we see at the end of the story. He has some rather unusual experience, and most stories revolve around the brutal Cato and his interaction with _Caelum_. Most of which are quite harmless and humorous, but in some stories I do go into great graphic detail, and I will note it if this chapter I consider unsuitable for younger readers.

I have to warn you about some of the technicalities of the story. Since there is much government policy involved, you probably need a basic understanding about Westminster-style government, especially towards the end.

Therefore: enjoy!


	2. Where It All Began

WHERE IT ALL BEGAN

Author's Note: Cato doesn't appear in this chapter yet. This chapter deals with the background a bit. Again, not much to do with the games just now, but it will get more interesting. This is my earliest work in this series, completed some time ago, so all meaningful input will be appreciated.

"Alex," Lord Edmund Caelum of Westminster whispers, shaking his son's puffy arms, "we are moving."

The sun not yet dawned in the East, the moon still shining on the horizon, the Lord had entered his son's bedchambers.

"Where?"

"To the East, in that direction that you will see the sun shortly."

"Why?"

"We've got a new job there. You'll find friends there."

The son smiled. He had just learnt how to speak not long ago. In a few moments, he packs his little clothes into his little luggage case. Following the shadow of his father, he obediently followed into the chauffeured car that carried both to the train station.

At Whitehall, Coriolanus Snow had just ascended the premiership under dubious circumstances. Lord Edmund, while not a contender, fell under suspicion on Snow's radar. Consequently, he sent the lord to District 2 as the governor-general. An unwilling appointee, the lord did not have the resource to resist Snow. One can't call the lord an enemy of Snow, but Snow does want to make sure that he did not become one, while striving to maintain a friendly relationship with the lord.

Onto the train, the pair embarks on a one-day journey on train 11 – limited express to District 2. At Crampton Station in District 2, the two disembark, only to find little to welcome them. Only a young civil servant, _Quintus Arcanio, _appeared to greet the pair.

"Lord Caelum, Sir Alex," he says, bowing deeply to the elevated arrivals, "welcome to District 2. I, Quintus Arcanio, am your principal private secretary and the first commissioner of the liaison commission between the executive council and the national government in the Capitol. I am also the permanent undersecretary of state for education in this district. During your commission here, I will arrange for your comfort and accommodation."

"Hi," innocently says the five-year-old.

"Good morning, Sir," replies the secretary.

"Thank you," the Lord replies earnestly, "this is definitely a great place. Now, what must we do?"

"Well, my officials are waiting for you just outside, and we have arranged for a vehicle to transport you to your official residence, York Hall, just a quarter of an hour from the station. It being Sunday today, you can rest until tomorrow, when we have arrangements for the lord at his office in the Government Hall. As for my good sir, I have enrolled you in Penticton Elementary School, where you might find it pleasurable to spend your time from eight in the morning to noon, when I have arranged for transport back to York Hall."

"I see," the lord smiles, "you are prepared. Well done, my dear secretary."

"Thank you, milord."

First day in school, Alex stands in front of his class and introduces himself.

"Hi… I am Sir Alex Caelum, GCC. I just moved here yesterday."

"Ha-ha…" a relatively large boy sniggers, "what was the 'sir' bit about?"

"Oh… I am a knight grand cross of the order of Corona… you can just call me 'Alex.'"

"…That's unfair…"

"Well," the teacher intervenes, "as he said, he just moved to district 2. You'll want to make friends with him."

The very opposite occurs during recesses and luncheons. This rather depressing childhood awaited the young knight every day as he returned to school.

Reaching the age of 12, secretary Arcanio moved him to Centenary Middle School, the premier middle school of all district. This year, the knight had the first taste of the Games.

"Master," Alex says, coming to his teacher, "quite frankly, you are letting us leave very early at this school."

"Sir," the teacher responds, "that's a very special design for aspiring youngsters at our school. You might ask about your classmates about what they do during the afternoons."

Alex does so. Against many other 12-year-olds who could pass for 16-year-olds, the brave knight barely had the courage to ask any question. Of course, many of these "aspiring youngsters" had a kind heart, but to be seen having a kind heart meant instant social suicide. Only the knight had the ability to appear kind-hearted some times. Other times, he was absent-minded.

"Hm… excuse me… why do we get off so early? It's boring. What should we do after school with no homework?"

"Who knows? I go to the training center to train. Don't know 'bout you twit, _sir_."

"Could I go?"

"Oh, you're 12, aren't you? Certainly, just not sure about whether you'll come out in one piece."

"Thanks, Damien."

After school, which ended almost as soon as it began, Alex follows the trail of pupils to the fabled training center. It was a large, imposing building that showed almost no windows. Despite however much effort to blend in with the surroundings, his red robes with the golden chain about his neck could be spotted miles away. The others wore quite uniform grey or black sweatshirts.

At the registration, the knight waited for his turn to register for membership. Just before his turn, he removes the heavy golden chain and conceals it in his pocket. Soon enough, it is his turn.

"Sir," he says to the attendant, "I would like admission."

"Sir," the attendant replies, his eyes glued to the gleaming robes the boy had on, "do you have a membership or just a one-time admission?"

"How much is either?"

"It's $12 for the annual membership and $0.05 for the one-time."

"How much do you make a month here?"

"$27.325."

The boy behind him starts to tap his feet against the granite floor impatiently.

"I'll have the annual membership then."

"May I have your ID please and $12?"

He takes out his passport and a $20 bill. The others gasped at the sheer amount of money the boy had.

"Wait… you are from the Capitol?"

"Yes."

The attendant collected the due and issued the member card. The boy took the change and the member card.

"Please sign in here. If it please you, the membership number here _013_."

The new member obeys and obtains admittance. After passing the gate, the knight stares into a maze of all sorts of training programmes and hears a myriad of cries and clashes of metal. Behind the boy, the attendant instructs a trainer to attend to the boy with especial care.

"Well," Damien says, pushing the knight to the floor, intentionally swiping some sweat into the knight's eyes, "aren't you going to do somethin'? After shellin' out $12?"

"I am just trying to decide just now."

"You needn't. You'll fail horribly on any of these. In fact, let's see you at the sword fighting section. I'll wait for you there."

"Hmm… I'll come after cleaning my eyes. They're ok. It happens."

After cleaning the eyes of their disgusting invader, the knight, with a map, approaches the designated section. The trainer stalks him silently and discreetly.

"Well, Damien, I honor my word."

"Just for you, Alex, I'll use a toy sword. You can use a real one."

"No knight would ever accept such an advantage," the knight smiles timidly against his intimidating opponent, "I'll use a toy sword as well."

"Sir," the trainer stationed at the section interjects, "will you consider some other attire? I am afraid you… might trip in your present choice."

"No… I'm fine. It won't last long." The knight says, loosening the top button.

A large crowd gathers to watch this bizarre occasion. A powerful, physically impressive star at training, already worked up and sweaty and ready, against a feeble-looking kid without demonstrable strength, in bright red robes. The knight holds out his chain and puts it in trust with his secret stalker. The star first steps onto the raised platform and assumes an aggressive stance, arms spread slightly and eyes looking into his opponent's evading sight. After taking some time picking a handle-heavy toy sword, the knight scales the steps and stands totally upright with his weapon held loose by his right side. He approaches the opponent and offers a hand. No shake.

"Start!" shouts the master.

Immediately, the aggressor bolted in the direction of the knight. The knight, with a swift spin, allows the 5' 7" 12 year old to send himself smashing into the far wall. The knight turns around and offers a hand to the fallen aggressor. No acceptance.

"Start!" shouts the master.

The same person again on the aggressive, just now tenser and redder, charged again. Again, the knight dodged the cannonball and permitted the boy to smash into the wall again.

"Shall we shake hands? Or must I see you smash into the wall again? The more you get angry the more you will smash, you know."

"Won't… lose… to… you! Dammit, use your sword!"

"Deal."

"Start!" shouts the master.

It seemed as though history would repeat itself, but this time the knight grabbed the "blade" and smacked the star across the face with the handle. His opponent again floored, he, without asking, pulled his opponent up despite Damien's wish to dig a hole and go into the hole.

"I honored my word. Thanks for the experience."

"NO! LET'S DO THIS AGAIN. CAN'T LOSE TO YOU! I'VE GOT SO MUCH WAITING FOR YOU. JUST YOU WAIT!"

"I concede."

"WHAT?!"

"I concede. You win. You're the winner. I toss the sword aside and I surrender."

The knight tosses his weapon at the red, steaming boy's feet and holds up his hands.

"I, Sir Alex, concede and surrender."

"You…"

"What more do you want? You won."

With these words, he earned a standing ovation from a district that normally accepts only strength from a boy and, though Damien had incredible physical strength for a twelve-year-old, the exquisite mental game of his conqueror earned due respect from even the undefeatable Damien. Collecting his golden chain, he walks silently away without so much as one ounce of pride, as though he really lost the match. The red robe subsequently became the highest honor awarded for mental game in the premier academy. Just two weeks later, the knight would attend the first reaping scene for himself.


	3. Why the Reaping

Author's Note: a rather short chapter, but this was the one that I wrote during the wee hours in the morning – my most sentimental hour. There are certain elements here not meant for younger children.

No school for students on reaping day – a custom observed throughout the nation. Before reaching the square, he joined a few classmates whom he could not really call friends to walk to the square. Some older children elected to wear seriously exhibitionist clothing to exhibit their physical prowess. Alex, however, appeared in the standard for himself – red robes and golden chain. Others often ask him if he had anything else in his wardrobe, but he said that he has five sets of these.

At the square, he tried to check in. However, the officer could not find his name and asked for his address.

"7 Empire Street? But that's miles away from here."

"Yes, but that is where I register my home."

"Well then, just stand by. We'll see what we can do for you."

Soon enough, the officials of the district began the ceremony, but the little knight still stands rather out of place.

"Kid, find your spot!" orders the peacekeeping commissioner.

"Sorry. I live here but I don't live here."

"Ha ha," the governor general chuckles, "Alex, your spot is to my left."

He looks sharply over to the female half and points at them. Laughter rocks the square.

"My son, Sir Alex," the governor chuckles still harder, "your chair is way up here. You don't belong down there. Come on, up."

The peacekeeping commissioner collapses into his chair: how could one mistake the governor's own son for a common "kid" in district 2? He hurries down and gently takes the child's hand and slowly directed him to his chair with a reverence.

Sir Alex stumbles along the path, waving goodbye to life in district 2. He could see the amazed faces looking at him. The whole square was a mass of black clothing, t-shirts, leather jacket, and such inhospitable color schemes. The red robes stood out, just like his disposition. He takes his seat by the governor's right, in a similarly decorated sofa, just two sizes smaller. His father starts the ceremony off.

"District 2," he says rather slowly and gently, "I am your new governor-general, Lord Edmund Caelum of Westminster, and I am here to help you. I would like to introduce you to the little gentleman, Sir Alex Caelum, GCC, my son. He… uh… had a little confusion as he chose to walk amongst you to come, causing a slight faux pas on his part. But please play with him as you normally do."

Then, the Mayor of the city started the standard spiel.

Ladies first. Serena Cawley Johnson walks onto the stage as volunteer.

"Volunteer for what? Can I?" snaps the little gentleman.

"Sorry, sir," the Mayor turns, "you can't. You are here, but you don't live here. So you couldn't."

"Aw…"

Then the gentleman is drawn. Tertius Laxius. Un oh. This is Damien's even more horror-inspiring older brother, 16 years old. This hulk leaps onto stage and ripped his shirt apart to publicize his shape. Whistles.

"Oh goodness, not public nudity!" shouts the female deputy-mayor.

"_Yeah!_ No need for volunteering. I'll bring back the crown to end the drought."

"There you have it. The two tributes from district 2, lets have some applause as we send them in for the 58th Edition of the Games!"

The public roars, causing some disquiet on the little knight's face.

"What are we doing?"


	4. TV and the Games

TV AND THE GAMES

Shriek! The pitch and discord of the exclamation rocks the whole of York Hall. The father rushes towards the son, spending a lazy afternoon in front of the television. The transmission of the highlights of the first day of the Games just started.

"What's the matter, Alex?"

"I…I…um…"

"Just speak. No fancy stuff."

"I don't know how might I describe this, but I think I just saw Laxius, a brother of my classmate, doing _that_ and in slow motion!"

The boy pointed to the television screen in shock. Laxius had just completely decapitated the girl from district 9. The television would not shirk off the offending film and still again and again replayed the despicable footage in slow motion.

"Oh," says the father, "sorry. They shouldn't have transmitted this on _kids' channel_! Goodness. They must be out of their minds. Quintus!"

"Yes, milord," comes the secretary running in.

"Please inform the broadcasting house that this programme must not be transmitted on children channels."

"May I enquire why, milord?"

"Um… because it involves violence and coarse language."

"Sorry, sir, but most children in district 2 enjoy violence and coarse language. Of course, I can recommend a better channel if it is your son's pleasure."

"Pray do."

"Channel 30."

_…and as we can see, the reports coming in from ABC Inc. will square with their projected earnings at 23 million dollars, just over 1% above the said projections, and then to the Stock Exchange, Standard & Poor will show us…_

"He can't watch the financial news all day long!"

"Oh… but this is probably the only channel not playing the games footage."

"Son, please watch the financial news all day long!"

"DOW up 500!"

"Just flip back to kid's channel please. I can't stand the financial news."

"I can't stand watching people die."

"Why?" asks the secretary.

"What happens if I get drawn one day?"

"Oh, sir, you need not worry about that. Your name isn't entered into the draw."


	5. Prorogation

At school, Damien loitered at the entrance and delivered a perilous shake to everybody's shoulders, gloating about his brother's success.

"Did you see that kill? That was wicked! You could see the blood shooting out the girl's neck. Ha! Classic District 2 style!"

"Wicket? What wicket? Do you play croquet?"

"What?"

"Or are you a banker? You know, the sing that reads 'next wicket please.'"

"Just… tell me that you're impressed."

"By whom?"

"My brother. Tertius."

"What did he do?"

"…"

"?"

"He. Made. The. Kill. Of the Day."

"Who?"

"…"

"?"

"Yes," he turns away, "John, did you see my brother…"

The knight slightly chuckled. During class, the teacher held out a box to the 12 and 13 year olds.

"Class," he says in a booming voice, "if you want some excitement and honor, write you name and put it in this box. One entry per person only."

The knight duly writes his name on a scrap piece in tidy font and folded it. He walks up to the teacher and hands the piece over.

"Before I put it in, sir, you might want to think twice."

"Am I mistaken that it would be exciting?"

"Exciting, yes. But, you see," he splutters rather difficultly, "everybody is different. What's fun for Damien might not be fun for you."

"Well," the knight holds out his fluffy palms, "you said it to class. That means you consider it exciting for most of us."

"Yes. If you insist."

Apparently the class had foreknowledge what did "excitement" mean in this context, which was a boys-only form of excitement. Heaven forbid, of all the names, the knight's name is the one that by sheer chance came up.

"Sir Alex Caelum," the teacher says unwillingly, "you are the… uh… lucky boy. Come to the school field this afternoon and you'll have… uh… excitement."

The whole class tries unsuccessfully to conceal laughter. They eagerly followed the knight after school, even suspending training, to the field. The mayor of the city stands by the stage and holds onto the hand of the boy firmly.

"You are the chosen one? Well, sir, it's going to be rather… different. You seem dressed for it, though."

"Oh, never mind, I wear red because I get lost a lot. People see me from miles away with this chain."

"Different? What excitement is there in monotony? Tell me about the excitement."

"Well, the excitement is that you get to practice with some condemned criminals today."

"Well, and then what is the excitement?"

Damien, first row by the scaffolding, bursts out laughing, which quickly disengages into a sinister smirk.

"That is the excitement."

"If that be 'excitement,' then may I enquire how might one describe 'boredom?'"

"We've told you, sir, that the average excitement for a district 2 boy isn't the same thing for you. The tradition is that the training academy sends out a person whom the condemned Capitol prisoner challenge, which unsuccessful result will ultimately spell doom for the same."

Apparently, the rule is that if the condemned prisoner so much as scratches the challenger, he goes free. If, however, the challenger floors the prisoner, the prisoner will be up to the disposal of the challenger. This usually means subjects for practicing killing in public. In the past ten years, no prisoner has successfully escaped the ravages of the district 2 attendee. Consequently, the prisoners did not appear prepared for a fight.

"So you want me to _kill_ these people?"

"Yes."

"That's nonsense."

"Sir, you've got no choice. You had accepted the challenge."

"Listen… master… I have a very bad cold. I might sneeze any moment. It's contagious."

"That's OK. We can stand aside."

"Yes, but _they_ can't stand aside."

"Well," Damien shouts, "that hardly matters, does it?"

Chuckles from the school pupils.

"Sir, I do not give illness to others."

"That's OK. You can put them out of their misery even if they catch your cold."

"No is a no, master."

"Well, unless you want to defame yourself by not carrying out justice and showing your own strength."

"I'll rather defame myself than taint the name of the nation by performing such a inhumane and barbaric action."

"You're not chickening out," Damien taunts, "are you? The ability of the district 2 career is at stake, _sir_."

"_Bok Bok…[tries to flap his hands to fly away]_."

"That's too literal, sir."

"I mean, do you realize how damaging this will be for me? No, I mean for Britain!"

"Britain?"

"District 2, I mean!"

"Well, the audience is waiting for some blood, sir."

"No. I haven't the wall for them to smash into."

Damien blushes in slight embarrassment.

"Do it!"

"Get on with it," the kids chant.

The knight turns towards the audience.

"Are you really so eager to see it?"

"YES!" they reply.

"Well then, since for some of your it is such a great pleasure, why don't you come up and do it? I can't think how will I enjoy it. You get better results than I do."

"…"

"Come on. I know one of you can do it."

The crowd murmurs.

"He who catches this will be the one."

The knight throws the weapon to the crowd along with his own heavy golden chain. In contrast with all the kids retreating from this danger, a hand appears to grasp it.

"What a chance, Alex," Damien says, grabbing the falling weight with just one hand, "What a chance to practice for killing … oh you don't need it."

"I'm glad that I can help you. Entertain yourself."

"Thanks, Alex."

"No, _thank you_."

Quickly hurrying away from the scene, the knight could not manage to bar the frightful noise of metal against flesh from haunting his ears. He had saved himself, but not the others. Now back at home, he stands before his fireplace and sighs over and over.

"Well played, son," the father says.

"For me. Not for them."

"I'm sure Damien loved it."

"I'm sure the victims' families didn't."

"Well, district 2 does have such strange kids."

"All that I am afraid is that Damien is not the only one of his kind. Many other would pay to get the chance to do that."

"Why did you enter the draw?"

"They advertised it as something 'exciting,' and I didn't know what did that entail. Anyway, it's over now. For me and for them."

"That's very wise, Alex. How are you enjoying the training center?"

"It's OK. I don't particularly like it. The odour of chlorine makes me sick, but what it covers isn't more pleasant."

"True. I never liked the Games."

"Neither do I. Luckily I don't have the risk of playing it myself."

"Then why so down?"

"I worry about Damien's brother, Tertius. It would be such a blow to Damien."

"How do you know?"

"The more confidence one has in another, the greater the loss when it ends."

"Good. You are one of the rare kids who have empathy here in district 2."

"Am I? Do I really live in district 2? Or did we just cut a small piece of Capitol out and bring it here?"

"Don't be cynical, please."

"Sorry."

Dinner was a morose occasion. The dimly lit room and the gloomy atmosphere did not contribute in cheering the two diners. The army of servants, mostly seconded from the local labour force, did not express real sense of loyalty to its masters.

"Um…" the father says, during dessert.

"I would like to say that I definitely enjoy the little piece of Capitol rather than district 2. On this point, I am firm."

"I know you would. But do enjoy yourself here. No point in wasting time."

"Thank you."


	6. Education

EDUCATION

In addition to the "comprehensive education" that the district government gives to the governor-general's son, the loving father started a strict regiment on his son on Classical Latin and Mycenaean Greek. While the son had shown some interest in these subjects, he has found it generally inconvenient to reveal the fruits of his studies in the diverse fields, to his classmates when questioned.

"Governor," the secretary asks, "I am wondering what you teach your child yourself, you know, besides the typical maths and English."

"Oh," he replies, sipping his coffee on the promenade, "nothing that special. Just the typical classical languages in the spare time."

"Really? That must earn him some respect from his peers at school, you know, as that is no longer taught for years as a mandatory subject."

"Ah – how time erodes away proper education!"

"Yes, governor."

"He'll probably join the service when he is 18 and tour the country. By that time I might be back at cabinet, so it can be difficult to see him. Knowing these languages will gain him enormous benefits when dealing with the higher rungs of society."

"Yes. My first son is four, and I am planning to start him on the stuff too. I started Greek before I even started English."

"The good old days – waking up before the sun. I am really lucky to have a son not darting away at this boring course."

"I'm sure my Cato won't too."

"May that be the case, Quintus. Greek is a lost art, especially here in 2. All the kids do here is fighting without a stop. Culture vacuum."

"There's something I think I should tell you, governor."

"Speak freely."

"You son has divulged to me that his classmates have not appreciation of his ability to speak and write in Latin."

"I had rather anticipated that. But that's the price one must pay to be cultured. It might be the same for you Cato. Pity, I can't help you get to the Capitol. With that you need the Interior Minister's approval."

"I was not in danger for the reaping, and probably not my son. The only danger is that if he volunteers. I'll try my best to purge it out of him as he grows up. Hopefully he can do better than I did."

"Don't say so, Quintus, you have a great career ahead of you. Here in district 2, you probably reached the pinnacle; any more you need to become a Capitol citizen."

"Alas – I've already put my family up for the queue, but it might take years."

"I'll write to the interior minister, he's a friend."

"Thanks, governor."

"It's time that I go and pick up your son, governor."

"Thank you, Quintus."

The secretary walks out of the hall quietly. He goes into the car and orders the chauffeur for the school. The sky blue vehicle, with its plush, comfy interior, first descends the hill on which situates York Hall and ascends a plateau a few moments later. Apparently, the school had already dismissed the children, as pairs and trios came dribbling off the pavement. Most headed for the training center, but the car approached from the other direction.

On the other hand, Alex sits in a lonely corner under the shade, defending him loyally against the indiscriminant bombardment from the sun's rays. He had been inclined to hit under this tree for quite a few weeks, and this is a well-known fact. Quietly and professionally, two classmates hop down from the trees on his either side.

"SURPRISE!" they yelled. Alex shudders and drops his book that he presently reads. The classmates retrieve it and start reading it with keen interest. However, the interest was impermanent.

"Say," says one of them, "how do you manage to read _this_? How do you manage to read anything? Why waste the sunlight reading?"

Before the answer could exit the reader's lips, another inquires.

"Didn't you go and apply for the training membership? Why don't you go and have some fun?"

"One at a time, please. I read this because I want to make myself a better person, and I read books because I like them. I have the membership but I don't want to go. It's boring. It's like a factory, producing nothing useful."

"Goodness, those are some harsh statements. We are district 2 kids, _may I remind you_." The other giggles.

"I wish I could find the same pleasure in training as you do."

"That day," the second says, changing the subject, "you completely trounced Damien. I say, that was a great job. None of us really like Damien. We can't not play with him. It's rumoured that he actually kidnaps people who speak out against him and beats them up in private."

"And," Damien says from behind, without any of the three noticing his arrival, "the person, or people I will beat up reveals himself or themselves."

The two run away as though they saw the devil. Perhaps they really did.

"Good afternoon, dear fellow."

"Good afternoon, sir."

"I say, they had bolted away at just your presence. Rather amusing."

"They needn't. I wasn't coming for them."

A moment of awkwardness passes. Both looking away from another.

"Let me guess, is it our encounter at the gym that grants me the pleasure of your company?"

"Quite precisely, sir."

"They though you had something violent in mind."

"They are unfortunately right. My reputation precedes me."

"I gather that I may not refuse your indulgence now."

"It would be a shame."

"I thought I had more than paid for it, Damien. If it were not for you, I would not have surrendered the excitement."

"You do not practice good technique in the arts of deceit, sir. True, I am more than ardent to get my hands on them, but you were afraid to do it. That's why you gave the chance to me."

"Not so, Damien. I might have been inclined to have a bit of excitement myself, actually."

"Yes? And what would you have done? Release all of them?"

"Why not? I get the pleasure of having done something charitable and they have the pleasure of living. It's a perfectly mutualistic transaction."

"Yes, but, as you see, being able to kill humans for practice is a very rare treat for training tributes like me. I can tell you that I enjoyed every moment of it."

"What a frightful thing to say, Damien. It was a ghastly task. I can't imagine having to risk others' lives."

"I can't either. I will always take as many as I can."

"Do as you please."

"Don't think that way, please. You're a gentleman. I respect you. I will just kidnap you and ask your father to ransom you."

"Do you need money?"

"No. But having a bit more of it wouldn't hurt either."

"How much?"

"$30."

The seated knight tucks out two notes, one green, and one yellow to his captor. The captor seizes them.

"Here."

"You surely are rich. Or spoilt."

"This is basically pocket change, non-money where I come from."

"Would you mind if I increase the ransom to $60?"

"On the other hand, it isn't that little either."

"Smart."

"What will you do with the money?"

"I'll go to the brothel."

"WHAT?"

"You heard me. I am more _developed_."

"You little …"

"Pervert?"

"You 12-year-old paedophile."

"I actually just turned 13 yesterday."

"I will tell the police."

"No use. My father is the cabinet secretary in this district."

"So high and mighty, yet unable to escape the games."

"Escape? I'd kill to win it. Or rather, I will have to."

"Not necessarily."

"Capitol people like you have little sense out here."

"Says who?"

"Say I, future victor."

"You pompous ass."

"Look."

He points to the short sword that he carries with himself. Loosing his previous pretense of grace and friendliness, he takes it out and puts it against the unarmed knight's heart. Then, he shifts it, gliding the tip, shining from its recent polish, from crease to crease on the red, silky robes the knight wears. Applying slightly more force, he cuts through the red, revealing the white jumper within.

"It looks like you don't dress so differently after all."

"It is a bit too cold for the white tunic."

"It is interesting to note that Romans used to dress their soldiers with red tunics so that they can't see themselves bleeding. You do the opposite."

"The battle is over when one bleeds. I must conquer before an enemy knows of my presence."

"Same story with smashing me into the wall."

"No… rather an impromptu. I can't let someone as low as you are beat me."

The sword pierces through the white jumper, following roughly the same path, revealing the blue undershirt. The knight does not shiver from the slight chill from the wind, nor from the freezing coldness of the lethal blade.

"Low? I can drag you down from your throne and make you suffer so much."

"Are you quite done undressing me? We are in public, you know."

"I want to see you as you are… without all your deception. Just you. I want to see you quiver in fear without all your resource and smart-ass faking. We can begin by seeing you without your clothes."

"PERVERT!" shouts the knight, despite the endangered throat.

This attracts major attention. Every pair of eyes now focus on the knight, fragments of his glorious outfit flapping in tatters, yet his spirit still intact and glowing brighter than his shining clothes. Can the source of the light overcome the abyss of darkness two feet to his left?

"You shout in vain… kid. Nobody here dares to oppose me. Not the adults, nor the kids. I can slice you open if so much I want to, that I will see your arrogant face serenely loosing its blood, fading into the paleness of the rock, and the rubies of the lost liquid decorating my shirt and forever embalmed here in district 2. Just one jewel on the long chain I have."

"I stand against you as I stand against all people who do not know their place. Let's hope that the jewel will weight you down with shame."

"You look fearless. But will you keep it up when I have your constituents dislodged from their natural places? Will you still smile when I quench my thirst with your blood? To remind you, I am a master of the art of death."

"You? A master without craft, an artisan without art. You are too proud to see what I am, and you are too _weak_ to understand me."

With that, the aggressor slowly rises from his seated position, removes his restraining clothes, and readies the gleaming weapon for the blow. The knight turns his head away and mutters something under his breath. In perhaps a split second, the secretary grabs what is left of the knight's robes and pulls him away from certain death. Still in the air, the knight smiles.

"Once more. Sorry."

Then, with a thud, they land on the ground. Immediately, they rush home, but the permanent secretary apparently suffered a broken arm as he landed. The governor himself drove his secretary to the hospital.

"You should defend yourself more carefully."

"Don't worry. I had it planned out all this time."

"You should go to the training centre, just in case."

"It's unpleasant there."

"That's OK. I'll create a proper school out of the place and you can be the chancellor. You'll play with them and learn a bit as well."

"Good thinking."


	7. Sword

**This is the chapter where I will show you a slice of Alex's daily life. For the relatively impatient readers, Cato will be onstage in just a few moments.**

SWORD

A couple of months later, to celebrate the 13th birthday of the son, Lord Caelum prepares a rather extravagant and dangerous gift for the same. In the private chambers, the lord wishes the son for best of luck, now into his 13th year, and his 2nd year as chancellor of the academy. In the mahogany box lays a glittering sword, finely crafted and masterfully tempered. It is not a very long sword, since its user is not quite of age yet. The young knight picks it up and brings its blade close to his face to examine it.

"It's beautiful," he complements.

"Of course," the father says, "it's just made for you. I know that most people have their own swords in the academy; as a chancellor, you can't get on without a good sword. The blade is made out of sterling silver, which, after some procedures, maintains its polish exceedingly well."

"Isn't it rather dangerous?"

"No, it is not, yet. When you want to use it, you can ask the secretary to have it sharpened."

"Wow. Thanks, dad."

"No worries. I knew that you would like it."

Back at the academy, the knight has his newly found prize affixed to his belt. This day, he had again received several challenges to swordsmanship. Though he usually gently declines these, he does accept one of them today – to honour one of the best tributes-to-be. The match is arranged to be the best of three – to the fall only.

After the match, during which the sword barely came into use, the knight retires to the balcony to have a look at the other training people. From the back, Damien snatches the precious artifact, pulling the thing out of its sheath.

"Impressive. Could I use it for a bit?" he asks, almost admiring the beauty of the weapon.

"Of course. Just be careful, though."

In the studio, the knight sips the tea, not making a single sound. In an hour, Damien returns completely out of breath, sweat dripping all over his body, even the usually loose shirt sticking shamelessly to his back, a darker shade than its usual complexion.

"This thing is useless!"

"Of course. It hasn't been sharpened yet."

"It's so heavy."

"Of course. It's made out of silver."

"Why bother?"

"It's for decoration only."

"I just saw you having a match with that guy!"

"The match was for decoration only."

The knight receives his decorative weapon from the tester, with a slight grin on his face.

"Damien, I love my own sword."

The challenger further borrows the decorative sword for a day, and brings it to the armourer-general for inspection. The clinking sound never ends there.

"Hi, Damien!"

"Hi. I've brought in a sword for you to have a look. You might be interested."

The master sword smith takes the item in question.

"Whoa… it's heavy. The scale reads 7lb 9oz! Who owns this one? Hercules?"

"Far from it. But tell me a bit about this."

"Well… it's certainly beautiful. It a work of art, possibly the most beautiful sword I have ever seen."

"Who made it?"

"Lets see," says the craftsman, looking at an inscription at the base of the blade, "_A. G. Cadimis_! My old master!"

Damien then took the blade and forced the master to his knees with the pointed edge to his throat.

"… what have I done… please…"

Without speaking a word, he took a massive swing at the most vulnerable portion of the master's body. The master screamed as it came towards him, but it merely knocked him over.

"Your old master isn't quite up to the job, master!"

"huh… I am still alive… that was scary…"

"It didn't even cut through your skin. Explain this, will you?"

"Well… my old master isn't a sword smith. He was a silversmith. You know… making plates and utensils. Evidently he wanted to expand his trade a bit."

"Silversmith?"

"Yes…" he stumbles, "this is made of silver. Almost pure silver. Good for looks, but not quite so for fighting. But it _is_ so beautiful."

"Sharpen it, will you?"

"Damien," the master says, shaking his head, "this can't be sharpened. Silver doesn't take an edge and it will tarnish quickly. But I have a small favour to ask of you: can you convince the owner of this sword to lend it to me for a week?"

"It might be my sword, you know. Might be my birthday present."

"Don't try that, Damien. I can't imagine you owning a harmless weapon like this. You surely like something more deadly than this."

"Good reasoning. This belongs to Sir Caelum, the new chancellor to the training academy. What is this made for?"

"As far as I could see, this can't be used as a sword – any proper sword would surely cut this thing in half."

"Can I kill someone with it?"

"If you grab the blade and bash them with the hilt, then I suppose so. But this thing really resembles the old letter knives my master used to make."

"He has large letters, I think. I totally embarrassed myself with this piece of crap at the training dummies. It wouldn't even cut through the skin."

"I can understand that. This is way too heavy for actual combat, and I would never produce a thing like this. At best I think this is a ceremonial item – for aesthetics only. By the way…"

"I could speak for him. It's yours for a week, but don't damage it beyond recognition, though."

"I won't. I'll put it up on the mantelpiece and study its design when I forge my swords out of proper steel. It's just lovely, perfect, in fact. By the end of the month I can give you a replica of this sword that can actually cut. It will be lighter and more manoeuvrable."

"Nice. Aesthetics and utility – always an enjoyable combo. How much lighter?"

"Considering the silver blade and the gold hilt – about 40% lighter."

"How long did this sword take to make?"

"About a month. The blade was probably finished in three days, but the design will take far more than that. The elaborate carving is another reason I think this isn't meant for combat."

(A month later)

Damien walks into the chancellor's office with his new-found treasure. It was almost identical with the model, only that a) it wasn't quite as shiny, and b) it can kill. The chancellor looked to him and gave salutations.

"Good afternoon," he says, looking at the guest, "what brings you here?"

"Remember the sword you lent me about a month ago? I loved it. It was so beautiful. I was totally impressed."

"I'm glad that you liked it."

"That I might enjoy such a great companion, I took it to a sword smith and told him to make one for me after it."

"It were expensive."

"Not quite. I didn't have the money to have it done in pure silver."

"But that's what's special about it."

"Ha-ha," he chuckles, pulling the thing out from his belt, placing it on the desk, "have a look. It's almost identical."

"I see. You didn't have it polished yet, and the hilt isn't made out of gold either."

"Conscious of limits to my strength, I had it done in usual steel. The difference is that I can actually use it as a sword."

"Can mine not do that?"

"Don't be silly; it wouldn't cut through paper."

"You need not say that."

"Just being honest. My new sword will have the beauty of yours as well as the ability to kill or maim. Thanks for the inspiration."

"I can't believe this. I have just created another murderer."

"Don't flatter yourself. I am already one. Remember the excitement? I seriously suggest that you don't wear that thing around. It will be most embarrassing."

"Why? It is a work of art."

"It is a _useless_ work of art."

"Why?"

"Why have a sword that can't cut? It's as sharp as a butter knife!"

"That's good enough for me."

"What happens when you have an enemy?"

"My principal enemy is butter. I need to lost some weight."


	8. Lesson

**Cato's premiere on stage. It's a rather unconventional Cato that I have prepared here. Just as a note, this is my original starting point on this series of short stories; at the time I had not started writing in true 3rd person objective yet, so there will be :'( a bit of thought that I reveal to you.**

LESSON

That hideous alarm goes off – at 4 a.m., commandeering a sad and deflated-looking Cato out of his bed.

"Nooooooo," he yawns, "its Monday again. If I ever get to be President, I'll delete all Mondays: all of them. Eradicate, obliterate, and utterly liquidate them. So much for this accursed name!"

Slowly, and certainly taking as much time as he possibly could, he picks out the most repulsive set of clothing he could think of from his wardrobe. Doing so will allow him to shorten, or at least ameliorate, his suffering that will come shortly. He has always shuddered at the thought of Mondays. They scare him more than his worst nightmares.

"Unwashed red underpants, blue tank-top with yellow spots, ragged jeans with flared ends, golden necklace with a swastika pendant, and one big bow-tie," he mutters, "and, of course, a red cardigan. This will serve him justice."

After selecting his completely dissonant attire, he meanders downstairs, to his library, where his father, _Quintus Publicus Acanico_, waits. He lives with both his parents and his grandparents from his father's side; his father serves as a liaison officer between the Capitol and District 2. Consequently, he lives a relatively comfortable life style, with enough, finer food for his consumption and occasional wine, which he has drank "in strict secrecy and moderation" since he was 13. It so happens, that the Reaping happens today. The young Cato has little ambition at the Games; indeed, he often says that it is beneath him. The residence and wealth that comes with the victory pales in comparison with what he presently enjoys.

"_Salve,_" says his father. Cato moans. Two heavy, leather-bound textbooks sleep on the desk, and Cato could already picture himself suffocating under the weight of those books. He takes his place at the desk.

"So, which one is it then?" asks Cato, almost crying.

"_Fili_, it is Latin this morning. Please, don't speak like this. Think of your glorious heritage, and your glorious name. Not only must you understand and fluently speak Latin, you must excel and enjoy it. Now, what is the 2nd person, plural, passive, perfect, subjunctive form of_ videre_?" Cato's mother stares at her son sharply and coldly.

Cato looks at the ceiling, and then the floor, then scratches his head, and then shrugs his broad shoulders. He sinks into his chair.

"Cato, this won't do! You must become adept at this tongue. And look at you clothing! They're repulsive!" reprimands his father, "if you won't change into something more normal, you must go study in your bedroom."

Cato lets out an invisible grin and an inaudible chuckle. It's paying off, he shouts in his heart. But in the midst of sleepy ecstasy, his father says:

"Cato, I can see right through that little plot of yours; you'll move the bed out of your room first, and then study in it. I have a lengthy exam prepared for you when you come out."

"Why!? For the past few years, you drag me up every morning to do these useless things! Tell me, life isn't this bad!" shouts Cato.

But his father chuckles, and says, "Life? Bad? Wait until this afternoon when you'll do Mycenaean Greek and Linear B! You'll know what "bad" really is. Now get on with the relatively simple stuff."

"Why couldn't I just train like the other careers? I live in 2 for goodness's sake. I'm strong and fit, surely am good material for the Games?" mutters Cato as he collapses into the corner.

"Life isn't always fun and games, Cato," says the father, "as for games, there are a couple of cross-word puzzles at the appendices. Lucky you, I never had these when I studied." He lays the two book across Cato's chest as he leaves the room. Cato almost suffocates under them. With what he thinks will be his final breath, he declares "_Visiaesitis_."

His life rolls pass his closed eyelids. He remembers that he championed any other classmate at sports with his strength and skill. He remembered that he could lift 250lb with ease. He remembered that he probably would never lift these two 5lb books for his chest. He remembers that the Reaping will happen today.

"But what's the use," says Cato, "my parents probably bribed their way to remove my name." Alas, woe woe woe woe! He opens the textbook and reads "_Gallia est omnis divisa in partes tres."_ This was too difficult. He turns to the English annotations on the other page. In them are the stories of great feats of military conquest, of strength, skill, and fighting. Slowly, the time approaches for the Reaping.

The father enters the study, and paces around, pretending not to notice Cato curled up in the corner. "It's your lucky day," says Quintus, "you're heading out for the Reaping. But you won't escape. Bring the Greek Grammar with you and read it during the d-mned, bloody Reaping. Return home at once after the Reaping."

Cato retires to his chambers, thinking about all his unused physical capabilities. His father doesn't permit him to go do daily training classes like his classmates.

"Look at you," often says the P.E. teacher, "I see a future champion before me. Why won't you join the training? Your build is fantastic, you're 6' 2" for goodness sake. You'll own the Cornucopia and all its treasures. You'll be crowned victor on the fourth or fifth day, no contest. You might even get an unprecedented 12 on the training score; sponsors will trip over each other to flush you with goods."

Cato couldn't possibly say, "I have Latin/Greek class" for an excuse: it would be social suicide. To his P.E. teacher's well intended but stabbing remarks, he would often reply, "I can't. I'll make a fool out of myself in front of the others," even though he will trounce the others. In District 2, all that kids want to know is how strong you are and how will you win the Games. The only unoccupied days that Cato has are Fridays, when he'll be given $2 – that's two days' wage for an average person, to spend. Cato doesn't like shopping, browsing, or reading; he might not be different from the other boys in 2. He might likes fighting with others, but he is a natural at fighting; at school trainings, he has a 59 times unbeaten record. Last Friday, he spent all his time at the training facilities at his classmates' behest, and he has literally defeated all the trainers.

"You will be a success as a statesman," commented his father, "and you can emigrate to the Capitol once we get the wheels in motion. It will be expensive, but it is well worth it. Imagine – Mayor Cato for District 2, or even President Cato. When you're President, you must understand these classical language."

All these images, speeches, lectures flash across Cato's confused mind. Suddenly, his father enters his bedroom, and stares at Cato. For a few moments Cato was too stunned to speak, but that didn't matter.

"Cato," said his father slowly, "you will be leaving District 2 in a few weeks' time. I know that it will difficult for you to say goodbye to all that you have known, but your aunt, Corona, just called. She says that she got the paperwork through with the Department of the Interior, and, consequently, you have become her son. Don't panic, Cato, you will find friends there. It is almost time for the bloody Reaping."

Cato couldn't believe his ears. He has travelled to the Capitol before, and he honestly didn't like it. Gold for waste water pipes? Foie gras for dog food? He didn't study philosophy, but he knew that such extravagance is just plain wrong.

Cato's peers often commented on his "killer instinct" and how that must help at the Games; indeed, he is regarded as the epitome for the ideal District 2 boy: ruthless, powerful, and ambitious.

As time for the Reaping draws near, he sheds his ridiculous costumes, and assumes something more normal. He obeys his father's requests, namely to bring the Greek Grammar with him. As he walks out of the door restlessly, he punches the brick wall. The brick came loose.

He arrives quite early at the Square, as his house just faces it. His friend and long-time competitor, Lucius, came up to him.

"Good morning, Cato, is it your big day?" asks his friend.

"Not sure," replies he.

Soon enough, all the children in District 2 congregate at the square, and Cato notices his parents sitting just behind the Mayor. Cato opens his book to read. The Mayor starts his spiel, one that Cato knows by heart. Cato reads: _Eimi, essi, esti…_

"Good morning, District 2. Today is a day of remembrance and of reflection … Now, I am pleased to present your Escort this year: Lord Calus, Permanent Undersecretary of State for Defense."

Cato reads: _Lyo, lyeis, lyei…_

"Now, for our stars of District 2: as custom, ladies first," he says with a rather absent-minded air, "Miss Candia Clove." Cato reads: _elelykein, elelykeimen …_

"Now for the gents," he says with a more absent-minded air, "Mr. Reicus Continos." Cato reads: _elelykeisan, lythesomai,_…

He shouts, "_APARAKLETOS_!" and adds, in a tiny voice, "Sorry, I meant 'Volunteer'."

His parents rise in disbelief. To solidify their detriment, Cato adds firmly, "I volunteer as tribute _agathinon_, sorry, to honour, my district." Before the parents could shout no, Cato runs to the foyer, and shakes the hand of Continos, just 12 years old at the time. Cato runs, not as a future statesman, but just as a normal District 2 boy to the foyer; as he runs, he might see his true calling: that of a true fighter, to his presently uninspired self.

In the waiting rooms, everyone he knew comes to bid farewell.

"See you at the parade back home," his classmates say as a testament to his abilities, "may the odds be _never_ in your favor, you won't need them."

Meanwhile, his parents panick like never before.

"Cato, I know that you wanted to go to the Capitol," his mother says with tears in her eyes, "but couldn't you just wait for these four weeks?"

"I want to go," replies Cato, "but as a fighter, not a bureaucrat. I know what you want from me, but I have found my calling."

"Don't worry," the father says, "Aunt Corona knows powerful people, we'll get you out of this…"

"Thank you," Cato replies, "but the best you can do now is to have confidence in me. Just watch me on the telly, I promise to eradicate opposition, to have no mercy or compassion." His parents still could not believe their son's transformation.


	9. Journey

Note: I've bumped the rating all the way up to "M" because I thought there is an occasion where I include much violence that I think not exactly fit for younger viewers. There are no citruses in this chapter.

JOURNEY

On the train, comfy, Cato hunts for a telephone. He dials (0) 70-550 on the phone, for his friend at the Capitol, Alex. Alex had lived beside Cato when he was younger, and he was 8 years Cato's elder. Cato likes him for three reasons: that Alex cared for him like his own brother, that he understood and helped him with Latin and Greek, and that he doesn't have the nasty Capitol Accent. After all, Alex wasn't a real resident of District 2: he is the governor's son, just here for some years to check up on the mayor. Alex moved back to the Capitol a year ago, after he had been appointed to the post of Permanent Under-secretary of State for the Interior. His grandfather knew the President Snow as a colleague.

"Good morning," says Cato tentatively, "Alex."

"Ahhhhhhhhhh," says Alex casually, "I am expecting a call from you, Cato. I have the pleasure to inform you, informally of course, that your papers have been put through, your passport printed, and your name entered into the registry. I applied the seal myself, actually. Therefore: Welcome to the Capitol, Cato! I will arrange for your enrollment at school, your residence," Cato shakes his head ceaselessly, "and, by the way, when will you arrive? You know, your release still requires a certificate of abjuration from your Mayor."

"Yes, exactly," Cato says with slightly more confidence, "I was about to tell you that I will be arriving in about two hours."

"Goodness," sighs Alex, "that mayor of 2 is really eager to get you out of the Districts and into the Capitol, isn't he? I assume that you have that Abjuration ready with both signatures on?"

"Of course … I was about to say," Cato tries to explain.

"Oh, do remember to bring a bit of money, Cato. You will live in a hotel for a bit, real estate is kind of scarce these days. Nevertheless, I have $5,000 in cash for you once you arrive."

"Have you," hesitates Cato, "seen the Reaping?"

"No," replies Alex with some regret, "I've been working. I'm the Permanent Secretary, you know. I will come with my car. You can rest at the office. Where are you now?"

"Yes," attempts Cato, "I'm on the train, and I should tell you that I have been…"

"Well," retorts Alex, "that would put you on train…12 with, oh, the tributes. Of course … that's about the only train from 2 that runs on time. Well, mingle a little with the tributes then, they're usually fantastic people, though I could never bear to see them perish in action. I remember well that mentor for 2, you'll be here to witness another victor from 2 again. Anyway, at the border, tell the officers that you have obtained citizenship by virtue of the Executive Order 33101KA, with the personal conformation of the Principal Secretary of State of the Interior. Then present your Abjuration, and you will obtain you passport. When you arrive at the Capitol, don't get off at Paddington, that's where the tributes go, but at Euston, where I shall wait for you. Tomorrow, you and I will go to the High Court where you will take the customary oath."

"Well yes," Cato says very quickly, before he is cut of again, "the Reapings…"

"Yes," I know, "fine people, aren't they? Yet sent here to die. It is very likely that you will never meet one the two tributes you meet on the train today, ever again. Quite depressing really, but my only consolation is that you are now a Citizen of the Capitol, to enjoy, but never to perish."

"YES," shouts Cato with a laugh, "I AM TRIBUTE."

"I know," says Alex, "yes, they get all the attention for these few weeks, and I know you like the limelight. 'Tis a good joke, Cato."

"I AM NOT JOKING," bellows Cato, "I MEAN WHAT I SAY!"

A long moment of silence passes by, and a loud clash of plastic against wood emerges from the other end.

"Are… are you," Alex speaks without all his pomp and decorum, "for real?"

"YES!"

"Cato," Alex says in disbelief, "you are snatching defeat from the jaws from victory! Do you know how much your parents, friends, and I will miss you? You are too good for this! You lack nothing! Do you know how much everybody has worked to get you into the Capitol? I personally spent $6,500! That's two limousines!"

"Don't worry," replies Cato lightly, "I am here to win. There is no possibility that I'll lose, in fact, it will be more like public executions – it will be so easy."

"Cato," says Alex, now under his desk, "that's a ghastly thing to say, a chilling one, merely to think. Do you imply…" Now Alex is being cut off.

"I don't imply," comes forth a booming, confident, but terrifying reply, read off a script, "I say that I will not only win, but also choose a different death for each tribute. I will make them completely defenseless before executing them, giving a good show. Then, I will kick their heads like balls for fun."

"Cato… I… will," stutters Alex, "keep you in sanity. The Game makers are my subordinates. I will tell them to arrange an error so that you needn't go through this ordeal. Another volunteer will be chosen from 2."

"Why, Alex," says Cato, still in his passion, "don't you understand? There's no possible opposition against me. I want the trophies for myself. I must honor my District, and then I will come to live at the Capitol."

"I thought that," Alex says, regaining his reason, "you weren't doing training? What prompts you to have such unspeakably cruel aspirations? The trophies at the Games are nothing compared to the honors I can give you. If you just withdraw, you will return Lord Cato, ranking above even the mayor at 2."

"I thought you would have observed, Alex," Cato says, "that I am no different from the boys in 2. Just because my parents force me to be civil doesn't mean I am civil. I am not; I cannot afford to be in the Arena. Lordships mean nothing out here. Only the heads of my victims have weight."

"Don't debase yourself," snapped Alex, "you are cut out for greatness. Don't make yourself a puppet acting for the theatrical pleasures of the Capitol. I am merely a Permanent Secretary, and I can see that you are destined for much more. Besides, how will I respond to your parents? They will call in at most an hour. How old are you?"

"Sixteen."

In his office, Alex shouts, "Mr Crane?"

A mean looking man, Seneca Crane, emerged with his head slightly bowed.

"What is your pleasure," he said in a sooth and soft voice, "my lord?"

"Thank you, Mr Crane, for giving me you time. It has come to my attention that the Games will have issues. Such information is given to me by polls conducted according to the Polls Act."

"What is," says Crane with unease, "this trouble that concerns milord?"

"Alas, I can say no more."

"Please, milord."

"Mr Crane," says Alex patiently, "do you think upsets are often brought about by uneventful tactics and manoeuvres?"

"Yes, milord."

"Mr Crane," asks Alex, staring at Crane, "do you think there are too many upsets lately?"

"Yes, milord."

"Mr Crane," asks Alex, staring at Crane, "do you think we ought to support candidates who are more able to carry out, in the stylistic and entertaining fashion that the Capitol favours, the Games?"

"Yes, milord."

"Mr Crane," asks Alex, staring at Crane, "do you think the careers will be able to bear this heavy burden to elevate the Games after last year's success?"

"Yes, milord."

"Mr Crane," asks Alex, staring at Crane, "do you think District 2 hasn't produced a winner lately, and the ones we have are all female? And would a victor from another gender not be exciting?"

"Yes, milord. I will arrange for that, but my office requires my impartiality."

"Of course, and in us we have not doubts about your impartiality, but in our nation's interest lies your ultimate loyalty, and I do nothing but suggest what may be her pleasure, for your consideration only, of course."

"Certainly, milord."

"Thank _you_," Alex lightening up, "Mr Crane, for your gracious indulgence. Would you fancy a drink?"

"Dry Sherry?"

"No, sweet only."

In the midst of drinking, a phone ring crashes the serenity. _Ring!_ Immediately, Alex stood up.

"Mr Crane," he said, "I must crave for confidence."

Crane left the room, leaving behind a very confident air.

"Yes," Alex says into the receiver, "Permanent Under-secretary of State for Internal Affairs speaking?"

"Milord," the speaker at the other ends panting and slurred, "you must recognize my voice! I am the liaison commissioner of District 2! You had lived beside my house when our District had the pleasure of your company."

"Yes," explains Alex, "Mr Acanico, I had the pleasure of speaking to your son, dear Cato, over the phone just now. I have the pleasure to tell you that Cato's papers to the Capitol are completed and promulgated. He now merely lacks a certificate of abjuration from your mayor to complete his emigration."

"Yes," the parent speaks, "but Cato … volunteered as tribute. You must do something to save him. We are so sorry to bother you with this affair, but you are his only hope in winning."

"I must say," Alex confesses, "that I heard from him about his volunteering when he called. He uttered some of the most disturbing words I have heard. I have made arrangements with Mr Crane to give him especial care, but largely it will depend upon himself, as the government cannot be seen to rig the games. I will personally sponsor him as much as I can."

"Thank you, thank you so much."

"That is the least I can do for a friend. Now, if you will excuse me, I must head off to Paddington to receive Cato."

Alex heads off to Paddington with only his Principal Private Secretary, acting as his driver. At the streets close to Paddington, traffic becomes congested, as most everybody wanted to see the new tributes. Meanwhile, Cato speaks to his mentor. His mentor tells him that he is a likely victor, but he still needs to be careful; he, except in the more exceptional circumstances, cannot afford to choose how his victims must perish, much to Cato's dismay. As the train stops, the mentor offers a few pieces of advice: act as though he will rule – with lots of violence. Fortunately, the Silver Badge on Alex's car got him through the mess.

At the platforms, the tributes are just getting off the trains. Alex first spoke with the stationmaster, craving for five minutes' indulgence with the tributes before letting the reporters in; the stationmaster, obediently, game his consent. The tributes all stand with the mentors on the platform now, all 24 of them. Alex saw Cato, standing at the side, looking very menacing. Previously, Alex had thought Cato simply boasted on the train about "choosing a different death," but now that seemed all the more real as he sees Cato. He now looks much older than how he appeared just two years ago. All the shyness, culture, and civility now drained out of him, Alex now doubts whether he should really reside at the Capitol. What remains… but was that boy that studied Plato and Ovid truly Cato? Or is he simply hiding his lower aspirations, and that it could no longer be hidden? As Alex scaled the steps to the podium, the tributes made a customary bow to him.

"Welcome," says Alex at the podium, bowing slightly, "to your Capitol. I am the Lord Alex Caelum, and I am your Permanent Under-secretary of State for the Interior. I have the distinct pleasure of receiving 24 of the cream of our Districts, and I will be responsible for your stay here, but not directly for the Games themselves. In the event you should find anything unsatisfactory, my telephone number is (0) 70-550. Happy Hunger Games, and may the odds be _ever_ in your favour." Alex then shook hands with every one of the tributes had a few words, but mostly pleasantries. To Cato, he said, "Remake Centre gents room."

Then, the media flooded in to get first-hand footage of the tributes. Wherever Cato went, an impenetrable sphere of malice surrounded him. Not a single reporter dared to speak an unsolicited word to him.

At the designated location, Alex quickly locks the door as Cato runs in. They settle into adjunct cubicles.

"Cato," Alex says firmly, "a replacement for you has been brought to this place in name for a vacation. It is your parents' and my desire that you should consent to his taking your place at the Games, and it has been arranged. Do you consent? I must have a response soon, in fact, now."

"NO –"

"Quiet."

"No… no… I understand your concern and theirs, but this is my true calling. I cannot resist it. I will cut off their…"

"I will respect your choices."

"Listen, um," Cato slowly says, pulling out the list of drafted responses from his pocket, careful not to rustle the paper, "if I scared you on the train, I know you are a mild person, I am sorry for that. But that's what I must do. Whether it be decapitating or hanging and draw –"

"That is not the point," declares Alex, "I have seen scary things, but scaring _me_ is meaningless. You must scare the _competitors_. Indeed, _how_ is not the point: _why_ is the point. You are a gentleman, Cato. I don't know how long you'll survive in this environment, but you must take care – "

"So many years of this ..., all this anger will be their deaths. Wait until you see me taking my time with those kids from 1 and peeling off their…"

"_Why_?"

"WHY? Don't you see, this is my revenge on the world! I'll make them bow to me awesome power before I tie time up on a tree, executing them by slicing their flesh in small pieces, and the SALT, ha ha, and dragging out their intestines and digging out their hearts or splitting their skulls or personally rip them apart or-" Cato reads passionately and dramatically from the draft.

"Cato, stop!" says Alex with his hands covering his ears; "one… knows… in… vivid… detail… what… you… have… in… mind… once… you… capture… them. One doesn't know what you have in mind before then."

"Ah," Cato concedes, not seeing this question on the draft, "that I don't know yet."

"Have you considered 'masterly inactivity'? You know, keeping activity to a minimum … conserving energy …"

"No," judges Cato, "I must show them that I can be tactful as well, not just the bloody gory stuff; a director saves the best for the last."

"Finally," sighs Alex, "you have returned to the realm of sanity. I will speak with Masters Enobaria and Brutus, and I will tell them what you know best."

"Thank you," Cato piped, "for all you've done for me."

"Though your answers are still not satisfactory," Alex spoke in a dim manner, "I would prefer if you didn't volunteer. It was all ready, Cato, and you one word negated two years' patient diplomacy. Well, pointless to say so. You can return to your carriage now."


	10. Chapter 10

INTERLOCUTION

Cato was a success at the carriage ride. He wooed the crowds of the Capitol, and sponsors really did flock to him. At the residence, Alex, once again using his position, gained access to Brutus's rooms.

"Milord," Brutus said, with the bow, "what can I do for you?"

"Brutê, I can't speak too much here, so please forgive my frankness. I have come to speak about Cato; I was his neighbour some years ago, and I think I have valuable information to offer. You needn't call me you lord, but just plain Alex. May I take a seat?"

"Certainly."

"Cato is really a gentle person. Lately he presented himself as an uncivilized wreck, but he is far from that. I have never seen him hurt a person on purpose, and I doubt if he ever will."

"Forgive me, but the Cato I to whom I spoke on the train is very different from what you have described, isn't it, Enobaria?"

"Hm?" piped Enobaria.

"He always tries to please the crowd. Even if that pleasure comes from murder."

"I'm afraid that he will have to please them."

"But don't count on him to make the actual cut, chop, or slash as the case may be. He manipulates, sorry, guides professionally, very well. I can foresee him forming a strong partnership with the more advanced tributes. He is just, loyal, and caring."

"Well, that's quite what I am here for. In perhaps more unpleasant terms, I am here to teach him how to kill. But he isn't satisfied with that. There is a slight difference there, and only a very strong mind will achieve that."

"Well, the difference is immaterial to me," replies Alex, "as long as he remains unharmed in the process. What will he take as his principal companion, that is to say weapon, of choice?" Alex says so in a low voice.

"It would likely be melee of some sort, as he frankly lacks the practical knowledge of traps and so forth. Though which type I will know only after this evening."

"I just need you to do your absolute best at making him a survivor. Whether he is stylish or not isn't the point here. Though I would like to see him repeat the 3rd Annual Games victory."

"Of course."

But Brutus scratches his head for an abnormal amount of time.

"Will you refresh my memory?"

"Well, the victor of the 3rd Games basically built a house on a tree and hoarded supplies. The last competitor couldn't find him and died of an infection. Its called the 'do nothing' Games."

"It must have been boring."

"On the contrary, I have found it most amusing. Watching tact and patience win over force. Most excellent winner."

"With all the technology the game-makers now have, its difficult to see that happening again."

"Will the Cornucopia have what Cato needs?"

"That's difficult to tell. Usually they have a selection of good melee weapons.

"And what if it doesn't?"

"Then it will be sponsored. A good sword might come in a $100 or so."

"How much will a machine gun cost?"

"That, sir, will not be allowed."

"Very well," Alex says, giving Brutus and Ebonaria each a large envelop, "this will be what you might find useful. These are just the table of contents; the full volume I have in my office." Brutus and Ebonaria are each staring at $50,000 in cash.

"How did you obtain this? I mean, isn't your salary just $25,000 a month?"

"Alas, I can say no more. Lets just say that it helps one has a friend called Coriolanus. As you know, I am the Under-secretary of State, and I will do everything to make him win. I owe it to his parents. So, call me at (0) 70-550 if you need anything, just anything."

As Alex walks down the hallway, thinking about how to make Cato win, Katniss Everdeen passes by. She trips Alex and says, "Would you also give me a copy of the table of contents, please?"

"My young lady," says Alex, "I will be glad, but may I be so bold as to ask to intrude your domicile for a few moments?"

"Certainly," says Katniss.

At the room, Peeta Mellark stood up to lock the doors.

"Now milord," says Katniss in a falsely respectful voice, "forgive my poor manners, a product of your ineptitude of running the country."

"My young lady," replies Alex with a wary grin, "Government policy is not for me to comment. With that you must ask my master the Principal Secretary, who makes all the policies."

"Peeta?"

"Milord," beams Mellark, "Due to unforeseen circumstances, we saw you entering the District 2 quarters and conversing therein. Could you assist us in this terrible Game? Can you tell us what you told Brutus of 2?"

"Sir," replies Alex, "for all and all, I am merely Cato's neighbour. One is not a mind reader. Furthermore, I have not spoken to him for a very long time, and he is certainly a different person by now. Any information I give will be misleading, which will do nothing but hinder you in the Games."

"That's okay," Mellark utters, "we just want to know a bit about Cato. You know, any information on his weakness will help us."

"And if I do not tell?"

"Then you do not exit."

"Very well. I will do my best. Firstly, his name is pronounced cah-taw, not cay-toe, after Cato the Elder, of Rome."

"I suppose that's useful, don't need to exchange cards or embarrassment in the arena."

"Secondly, his house is right next to the city square."

"Well, he won't be needing to know that. Will he, Peeta?"

Chuckles from both side.

"Thirdly, he can speak Latin and Greek."

"No dice. English's the language in the arena, second only to force."

"Fourthly, he is a very nice person. Always 'please' and 'thank you.'"

"Of course. Thank you."

"Fifthly, he gets $2 in pocket money every Friday."

"Ah," pronounces Mellark, "no chance of that in 12. My shop makes a measly $2 per week."

"How much must I tell you?"

"Well, you could either tell us some useful information quickly, or you could waste the entire night with us. Your choice."

"Well, you haven't defined what is useful to you, and would that not be quite demanding on one? One isn't a mind reader!"

"Oh come on! You are the Permanent Under-secretary! You know perfectly well what is useful to us. What are Cato's strengths and weaknesses?"

"As I have said, I have not studied him lately. Any information I give will likely be misleader or…"

"Just tell us the d-mned thing already!" interjects Mellark.

"In all honesty I don't know."

"Well, two tapes, one of your conversation with him on the train, one at the gents' room, stand against you."

"His principal strength is his strength," confesses Alex, "that he tries to force his way through every obstacle. However, it is also his weakness, in a manner of speaking."

"How can we exploit this weakness?"

"Alas!" says Alex, "I can say no more. It were already inappropriate that I have divulged thus far. To say further is improper."

Peeta stands up and throws open the windows – at the top story. A great frown surfaces on Peeta's rosy forehead.

"Well," said Peeta, "isn't his lordship slightly accident-prone lately?"

"Yes," replies Katniss, "I suppose his lordship will need a bit of fresh air. And a spot of free-fall fun as well."

"Alas," exclaims the lord, "I need not your solutions. Do you realize that Cato is merely sixteen? What complex strategy will he have walking into the arena? He has nothing but his physical constitution to depend on."

"Yes," reply both, "but what will he do when he captures one of us?"

"Alas," sighs the lord, "you know what."

"Alas," shouts Katniss, "perhaps the lord really needs some air!"

"Alas," squeaks the lord, "when the chips are down, what more than sorry defeat? But to go to a better place, pastures new, and the land with no sorrows?"

"Now we're getting somewhere."

"Yes, we are."

"How is he going to capture us?"

"That I truly don't know. I have suggested unto him that he ought to try 'masterly inactivity,' which he has declined. He intends to do much more."

"How much, and how?"

"Must I describe these things in the same detail he gave it to me?"

"Directly."

"This is not for faint minds."

"Out with it, sir."

"Well," shouts the lord in inexplicable rage, "he intends to, and I do quote, making no guarantees whatsoever, and not in any particular sequence, 'make them bow to my awesome power before I tie time up on a tree, executing them by slicing their flesh in small pieces, and the SALT, ha ha, and dragging out their intestines and digging out their hearts or splitting their skulls or personally rip them apart' in his words! Is this what you want? Cato is my friend, and I am distressed enough that he has these disturbing thoughts. The most rigid and impenetrable secrecy on this intention is required."

"Of course," smiles Katniss, "milord. You had been so resistant towards the real cruelties of these Games. It is nice to get it out isn't it?

"Oh, my dear Hawthorne."

"Did you just say 'Hawthorne'?"

"Yes. "

"Do you also know Gale?"

"Who in the name of Coriolanus Snow is Gale?"

"Gale Hawthorne, my friend."

"For goodness sakes," shouts Alex in exasperation, "I meant Nigel Hawthorne, the comedian. Now, may I go?"

"I thought we are in the HG world?"

"We are. But I am the greatest fan of Sir Humphrey in the HG world!"

"By all means, depart, milord."

Walking out the thresholds of the District 12 rooms, Lord Caelum can't be more confused: who really is Cato? The silent boy who reads Plato, or the bloodthirsty, sadistic killer?


	11. Note to Suspend

If there are any readers out there, I think both you and I will be saddened by the fact that I should need to tell you that I cannot continue to reveal this story to you. In that while it has been a pleasure to write this story, I cannot call it a success in terms of literary refinement or plot development. Indeed, thought it never had a revealed plot (it was more of an episodical work) I though it would not be proper to continue this story, in view of the great admiration that we constantly share towards the original author.

I must reiterate that I am also deeply saddened, and I have never abandoned a thing of such proportion in my life. I have about 100k words not yet posted, and should like your forgiveness and oblivion (on this story) if you ever had wanted to read it.


End file.
